


Second Verse, Fucked as the First

by AdhocPeacock



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier, Badass Ciri, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt has feelings, Geralt teaches Jaskier how not to light the curtains on fire with magic, Happy Ending, Humor, Jaskier teaches Geralt how royal courts work, M/M, Obligatory alternate dimension fic, Role Reversal, Slow Burn, they’re both ridiculous protective boyfriends before they ever actually kiss, we stan non-asshole Yennefer in this household
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdhocPeacock/pseuds/AdhocPeacock
Summary: “Stay here.”Jaskier hummed in what was almost an agreeing sound. “And let you go alone?”“I’m serious, Jaskier.”“As am I. Bards follow their muses, dear witcher,” Jaskier said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “But you already knew that."_____When Geralt and Jaskier end up on the wrong side of a witch's magic portal, they find themselves stranded in an alternate dimension. Geralt wakes to find he's now a prince with zero witcher powers to speak of while Jaskier is Geralt's mage bodyguard with no idea how to use his newfound powers.In order to figure out a way back to their own world, they have to work together and trust each other in a way they’ve never dared before whilst stranded far outside their own comfortable identities.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

Fog rolled in wispy rivers at their feet, parting only where they stepped as if avoiding the outsiders walking the path. Jaskier shuddered, trying to stifle the sensation of being watched. 

“This creepy little town is just perfect for inspiration,” Jaskier grumbled sarcastically, looking warily at the many shuttered, closed windows as they passed. “Maybe one day someone will find the remnant notes for my last ballad and sing the tale of the stupid witcher who ignored the hint that this entire place is upsettingly silent, lacking of people, and screams ‘ _for the love of Melitele’s tits please leave.’_ Couldn’t be louder if someone was yelling it in your face. Which,by the way, doesn’t seem to work either!”

“Shut up,” Geralt grumbled and shoved past Jaskier, who’d planted himself in the witcher’s path. 

“Oh sure, tell me to shut up, that’s fine. I’m sure we’ll be dead by sundown, you’ll get your peace then,” Jaskier said, snatching his lute away from the shove-y witcher. 

It was an afterthought that he stuck his tongue out and followed Geralt, sticking to Roach’s side instead. At least she had some kind of common sense — her ears flicked nervously and snickered a few complaints to herself. The Witcher patted her neck comfortingly, drawing Jaskier’s silent ire: he had no doubts that Geralt was well aware of the pointed stare when the man glanced back at Jaskier with what the common man might call a scowl. Jaskier knew it for the mischievous smirk it really was.

“Your silent intensity bodes _oh-so-well_ for our survival. I cannot possibly be the only one weirded out by—“ Jaskier featured wildly toward what was once a blacksmith, doors locked and chained as though to keep everyone out in the most over dramatic way possible— “ _this.”_

“Would you like me to leave you on the outskirts of the town instead?” Geralt asked, shooting him a look. 

Jaskier huffed, grumbling under his breath at the sheer audacity of the other man who was seriously beginning to grate on the bard’s nerves. At least as a consolation, it seemed to go both ways. They’d travelled past the last village they’d seen and straight through the night, so Jaskier felt a little bit justified in complaining this time. There had been warm fires and a tavern — Jaskier’s fingers itched to play his lute in front of a crowd, but the grumpy Witcher simply said they had no time to spare. Geralt had recieved a missive from some random contact from fuck-knows where, and he’d been keeping noticably mum about the whole business. Even for Geralt, and that was saying something. Usually, Jaskier was able to pry at least some information out of his mouth, but no, Geralt was instead opting to be _difficult._

“I wouldn’t be so fussy if you showed one iota of common decency to your travelling partner,” said Jaskier, who inched closer to Geralt when he thought he saw a dark shadow shifting amongst the fog. “Honestly, it’s just _‘come along Jaskier, you fool of a bard, at heel, let’s chop chop,’_ nevermind that I, human man, do not have your beastly constitution and stubborn pride that for some reason manifests as a refusal to sleep.”

Geralt hadn’t tensed up yet as he normally would when there was a monster around, so Jaskier was certain it was in his own head. He wasn’t sure what it said about him that he knew when to truly get ready for some god-forsaken monster to pop out of the woods by reading the minute tells in the line of Geralt’s shoulders, or the slow, calm look of mental preparation that passed over his face the moment trouble arose. He didn’t see it just yet, but still, Jaskier didn’t like it. 

“You’d be fussy in any given circumstance,” Geralt muttered.

“I take offense to that.” Jaskier was not pouting, and was absolutely not kicking a rock to the side out of sheer pettiness. 

Geralt cast him a side glance. “Did you think I might have meant it as a compliment?” 

“Many people are eager to give me compliments, just so you know.” Jaskier sniffed imperiously, shoving as much haughty viscount air into his tone as possible. 

“And here I thought you hung around me because I’m like most people,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier snickered when he looked to see the barely-there grin on the Witcher’s face. “Could hardly pick you out of a crowd.”

“Hmm.” 

Well, if Geralt was relaxed enough to play witty repartee with Jaskier, Geralt wasn’t _that_ concerned over the misty state of affairs. Then again, Geralt was plenty known to say something biting in life-or-death scenarios that would have Jaskier cackling under normal circumstances but was less appreciated when swords, teeth, or spells were pointed in their direction. A dry sense of humor indeed, but Jaskier had long since figured that it was said dark humor that got Geralt through the shitty situations his way of life tended to put him in. 

As if on cue with Jaskier’s thoughts, Geralt stopped abruptly. Jaskier watched him closely from behind, squinting at Geralt’s back as he realized they were moving faster as they walked, picking up in speed as they continued down the path through the center of the town. 

“Hey. So, I can’t help but notice—”

“There’s no one in the town,” Geralt interrupted. Jaskier blinked. It wasn’t like Geralt to cut in; he generally allowed Jaskier to finish airing his complaints before taking his turn to grumble about them. Jaskier discreetly caught up with Geralt’s pace, where a quick glance at Jaskier finally said something loud and clear: _play along._

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together — Geralt was actually a decent actor when he wanted to be (not that Jaskier would ever tell him that), and wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of burying his feelings under layers of literal armor and two dreadfully heavy swords. To Jaskier, it was clear that Geralt having to act at all meant they were being watched. Closely. Either by someone who was dangerous, or by someone whose danger levels were unknown by Geralt. 

There went his theory that their lighthearted banter meant they were free and clear. This was why he trusted Roach to tell him what was up more than Geralt, because at least she was easier to read. 

Jaskier breathed in, kicking himself when he felt his heart skip a beat. He didn’t know what was out there, but he didn’t want to give them both away by showing any physical symptoms of fear. Geralt once told him it was possible to smell terror, to hear people’s hearts race faster. Jaskier knew he meant to incriminate himself by painting himself a predator; a tactic that didn’t work then to chase off Jaskier, but he listened when Geralt spoke. Those predatory attributes were not only for witchers. Jaskier took in a deep breath. He could handle this. 

_Don’t think about the fog blinding you, don’t let fear show on your face, just keep talking as if nothing is wrong. Wouldn’t mind knowing what’s wrong though, but no, Mr. Witcher would never allow his dearest friend to know which sort of Millitele-forsaken monster is about to launch itself at us. Geralt wouldn’t leave me to the wolves, at least. Well. Wolves who are not him._

_Other wolves. More bite-y wolves._

Jaskier breathed out, internal rambling simultaneously distracting him even while his thoughts were only getting more hysterical in his head. 

“Well, I for one, am insulted at the lack of a welcoming committee. You got a lovely letter, and this is where it led us,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. “I love a bit of mystery, but I did rather sign on for monster hunting, actually, and you’ve pulled me by and large through the woods for a town that hasn’t been occupied in years.”

“Wrote in the wrong address?” The amusement in Geralt’s tone almost had to be real, but now that Jaskier was looking for it, he could see the twitch of fingers towards the sword at his waist. 

_Breathe. You got the highest marks in acting class, put it to some practical use._

Jaskier threw his hands up in a dramatic huff. “Goddess, of course, why not send the mighty Witcher and his tired bard on a wild goose hunt by way of an erred postal code!” 

The fog grew heavier, darker around them. The musty vapor was cloying to his throat, thick and heady as perfume and still somehow felt parched. Their surroundings, though out in the open, turned confining, nearly claustrophobic. 

Jaskier made note to lower his voice a tad, wondering if perhaps he’d just insulted the sender of said letter - the same mysterious figure Jaskier knew nothing about, what they’d written, or why Geralt felt it so necessary to come here with no warning. It would be phenomenal if the guy actually, like, kept Jaskier updated. But no, that was far too difficult for the likes of the Great Wolfy Witcher. 

A high pitched creak sounded from one of the empty buildings, making Jaskier jump. Geralt stilled, head tilting to the side ever so slightly as a dog might lift their ear up to listen for an answering call in the distance. The sound, although silenced, seemed to resound like a horrible, repeating echo in Jaskier’s head in the eerie stillness. If Jaskier wasn’t already certain something horrible happened here and that a creature still lurked just beyond their eyeline where the fog turned to shadow, he was now. 

Jaskier opened his mouth, but found that his voice was frozen in a sort of fear that he’d rarely been struck by before. His legs only moved forward because he still rested a hand on Roach, whose attention was more on keeping up with Geralt than the mist. 

A snap sounded from the fog off to the left of Jaskier.

He whipped his head to frantically search the wilderness for creepy creatures or, hopefully, an unthreatening doe wandering through the town just as lost as they were. No such luck.

A second shift was all Geralt needed to cast Aard in that direction, throwing the mist backwards pouring oil into water, revealing the form of a woman — but it took everything in Jaskier not to scream in cold, stark terror. He was used to ugly beasts and smelling corpses; it came with the trade. But the body standing there was hardly humanoid any longer, if it ever had been. Her skin was mottled with grossly exaggerated wrinkles, as though there was so little blood running through her that it couldn’t fill out her body as it should. Her face was skeletal, her cheeks so white and vacant that the skin seemed to fall around it like a piece of wet fabric. Her eyes were what startled him more than anything — those were grey, her pupils ashy, and sunk so far back into her skull that they were shadowed by the sockets. Her hand was raised in a poise of magic, and Jaskier flinched behind Geralt, even as he unsheathed his sword. 

“Don’t move from this spot,” Geralt mumbled under his voice. Jaskier knew without a shadow of a doubt that those words meant the witcher was about to do something incredibly stupid, but no matter how hard he tried to move, give a warning, shout an argument — he was frozen. 

Geralt was still, waiting for an opportunity. Her voice, when she spoke, was nothing Jaskier has ever heard before. A gurgling, raspy sound that muffled words nowhere resembling their own. Jaskier watched as Geralt charged forward, whipping his sword back and then forward, racing towards her. She snapped her fingers, and the fog was sucked back into the open space, enveloping them all again. There was a light, like a sword flashing, and a definitively Geralt-sounding grunt.

A hard thud, and then silence. 

Jaskier could barely see his own hand clutching Roach’s mane. He swallowed hard, and even that was too loud for the silence of the town, and his heart beat so hard that he could hear it over the sound of his mind slowly losing its grip on reality — every shadow, every twist of the fog, was suddenly a figure. His eyes tracked across the grey wisps, curling and shifting around him. Slowly, Jaskier realized that this was unnatural; he wouldn’t normally feel paralyzed in fear, or frozen in place. This was a trap. Anyone remotely human would be caught, and it was probably only Geralt’s inhumane abilities that allowed him to move at all. 

Somehow, knowing that this wasn’t truly his own fight or flight response made it possible to fight back. Focusing on the pack at Roach’s side, he grit his teeth and forced his hand to move, grasping onto the hilt sticking out of her saddlebag. His arm trembled, his lips numb and cold. It took every inch of his own willpower to pull the sword from its sheath, turn to face the white nothingness, and take an unsteady step forward. 

Another snap pulled him to attention, shooting another round of terror down his spine. Jaskier pointed his sword towards the source of the noise. He inched closer, fighting every step with the fear he recognized was less his own and more a clinging, heavy pressure urging his body one way when his mind knew otherwise. The fear was a spell, nothing more. If he could normally go after Geralt, he could do it now too — and sometimes, despite what others may think, Jaskier was useful in situations where Geralt had gotten in over his own head. Knowing that the witcher wasn’t infallible was more motivating than anything else. 

“Stay here, Roach,” he whispered, patting her on the side. She huffed, as if answering him under her breath; she wasn’t stupid enough to launch into the middle of the forest with nothing guaranteeing her own safety. Jaskier, on the other hand…

He stepped forward, looking down at the fog that parted at his feet. Swallowing hard, he steeled himself, pulling his shoulders back to stand up straight. In two more steps, the fog closed around him, cutting him off from Roach. 

_No going back now,_ he thought. 

Jaskier did the only thing he could, taking one step forward at a time. Before long, he became aware of a sound emanating from deeper in the forest — the sounds of a fight. He quickened his pace, making sure of each step forward before he took it, caution and urgency warring with one another in his panic to get there. 

The clang of a sword against somethingwas clear. A wicked laugh sounded through the mist, and really, why in the world did the witches they came across always have to have some sort of unhinged, maniacal laughter to make them even creepier than they already were? 

Jaskier stiffened at a grunting sound that was most definitely Geralt’s. Leaves crunched underfoot, making his approach feel obvious and uncommonly loud. He trusted that the sound of the fight itself would be enough to cover the noise of his approach. A large oak tree came into his path, and he took the opportunity to creep around it, taking stock of his position. 

Geralt was close now. Jaskier could hear him breathing hard, maybe twenty feet from his hiding spot. A wet gurgling sound came from a space beyond that. Jaskier genuinely couldn’t tell whether it was because the witch was injured and dying, or if that was just her natural sort of garble. 

Closing his eyes to focus on the sounds, Jaskier caught an unnerving hitch in Geralt’s breaths. 

_Injured then_ , Jaskier thought. Geralt’s steps over crunching leaves were firm, steady. Not mortally wounded if he wasn’t stumbling, thank Millitelle, but worrisome if it was enough to prevent him charging in at the witch head-on. Likely that she was using some spell that kept the witcher at bay.

Jaskier’s question was answered a moment later, when a green light burst through the mist, clearing the path for a split second. Long enough for Jaskier to get a bearing on their exact positions. 

Geralt was hunched, just barely. Blood dripped from a gash across his ribs, and he was two handing the silver sword with a tight grip. The witch, her ghastly appearance sending shivers down his spine. Her face looked almost melted at this point, almost like candle wax, the fat sagging in a way that convinced him that she was already half-dead, if not already. At a glance, the damage was likely due to a Igni spell thrown in her direction. Didn’t do much for her looks, in Jaskier’s opinion. 

A spirit then, trapped between the realm of the living and the dead. Something kept her here, tied to this place. Geralt told him of that sort of thing — the body began to deteriorate, but the spirit remained trapped in the body. 

Just what they needed. An undead witch. 

Jaskier grimaced. If Geralt could keep her distracted, he could—

Geralt shot Quen at her, forcing her back farther. She hissed, spitting congealed phlegm onto the ground in front of her. Geralt dodged to the side to avoid it, and Jaskier made note of it. 

_Right, neat, don’t let her weird bodily fluids touch you, just to add to the fun._

Then he took the chance given. Jaskier darted through the fog to the next tree, stepping in time with Geralt’s movements, using opportunistic chances to make his next move. With luck, he would circle around to the side, where he might be able to take the witch off guard. 

_Where’s the anchor?_ Jaskier thought, eyes searching frantically for some hint to her source of power. Destroying it should make her vanish. Probably. 

He watched closer, eyes tracking her odd, hastily maneuvered motions. Her feet dragged along the ground, though it didn’t seem to inhibit her ability to dodge Geralt’s attacks. It struck him that Miss Undead, Crispy, and Creepy over there didn’t seem to want to leave that particular area. If he could destroy what kept her soul on this mortal plane, problem solved. Jaskier studied her movements, making note of her spot there. She clearly had some amount of freedom, but she seemed to be making an effort to stay in this area. 

Jaskier thought he saw something shimmering below her spindly, skeletal legs. 

A runic stone, glowing softly in the dusky fog. One he was somewhat familiar with, actually, thanks to a cursory digging through Geralt’s limited (and inherently lacking for description if Jaskier did say so himself) compendium of helpful things to remember along his monster-hunting travels. If Jaskier dug through Geralt’s bag whilst bored and somewhat put-out from being abandoned as said witcher wandered off to kill a few drowners… well, Geralt didn’t need to know every petty thing Jaskier did in his absence. 

So. A binding rune, something inherently magic and more than likely exactly what he was looking for. 

Now he just had to hope that breaking it didn’t require a silver sword, because that was in the hands of a very focused witcher. 

Jaskier waited. When the witch bolted forward next, screeching as though she were the one being charged at, Jaskier shot forward. He rolled in the grass, using the momentum to slice down onto the anchor. 

The rune cracked. 

Jaskier stared at it, stunned. “Shit, that worked?” 

As he really should have guessed, it didn’t go entirely to plan. The witch let out a screech, sending Jaskier to his knees where he covered his ears with a hand — he was too stubborn to drop the steel sword Geralt had left with Roach. When he looked up, it was to see the witch twisting backwards, her ruined face filled with fury and mangled fingers reaching for him.

“Jaskier, get back!” Geralt’s voice broke him from his shock, and it was on sheer instinct that Jaskier dove in the correct direction to not get blasted to pieces by the stone cracking further and bursting in a shower of lightning-like sparks. 

The witch shrieked, ripping white hair out in clumps as she ran. But she didn’t disappear, only retreated farther into the fog. 

Jaskier leaned against a tree, breathing heavily. He wasn’t even surprised when Geralt came storming over, lips pulled back in a sneer with a hundred reprimands about to fall upon Jaskier’s poor, battered ears. 

Jaskier held up a hand to stop him. “Friend, I just looked a decrepit drywhore in the empty eyeholes of her skull. You’re not about to do a better job of intimidating me,” Jaskier said, and tossed the steel sword down to the side. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, then back down to cover his mouth, looking off into the fog with a wary gaze. 

Geralt bent and snatched the steel sword from the ground with a sharp, aggressive motion. “I told you to stay with Roach.”

“Yeah, well, she was fine without me,” Jaskier answered. The adrenaline was kicking in now — his legs trembled, voice unsteady. It was hitting him harder now, how close he was to getting his face eaten off.

Making some sort of disapproving grumbling sound, Geralt scanned Jaskier, and, deciding that he wasn’t injured, smacked his arm. Hard. “I don’t need to babysit you while I’m fighting.”

“Okay, that’s rich for someone who just received help. Helpful help, even,” Jaskier muttered, rubbing the arm. “I’ll now have more bruises from you than from the creaky bones cabaret.”

Geralt ignored him and turned, perceptive golden eyes watching their surroundings for movement. “You’re lucky the steel sword was enough to break it.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “That’s gratitude for you.”

Then he _hmm’d,_ as he was so wont to do, and headed towards the stone Jaskier had broken with the sword. Jaskier took the hint and followed, eyeing the wound across Geralt’s ribs, still weeping a dark colour. 

“Come on, Geralt, you’re injured. Why don’t you consider—”

“No.”

Jaskier counted to four, slowly, and let out a long breath. “And why not?”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt was less than forthcoming. 

“Geralt.”

Really, his patience for dangerous Witcher-related antics was growing thin and he hadn’t faked that irritation at all. 

“ _Geralt,”_ Jaskier pressed. “Why the hell are we even here? _”_

Except, he knew why. There was that stupid letter he’d recieved, urgent enough to make Geralt pick up everything and get moving. Which meant, really, that it was one of a select few people. 

No, no, there was only one person he’d go so far out of his way for. 

“What did Yennefer want?” Jaskier asked, and sure enough, that got a reaction.

Geralt’s gaze snapped to him, narrowing his eyes. Jaskier might have said he wasn’t going to be intimidated by him, but sometimes when Yennefer came up… he could get into this particular headspace. 

“The witch went that way,” Geralt answered in a warning, _drop it_ tone instead of answering him. 

“The one who leaves bodies in her wake or the undead one?” 

Geralt didn’t respond, and Jaskier was _this_ close to kicking him in the shin. The metaphorical forefinger and thumb were touching, and Jaskier was just about to make good on his vengeance when Geralt paused, clearly focusing on something in the distance.

Jaskier let his kicking urges go for the moment, focusing instead on issuing a scathing response instead giving in to ask in a mild panic if she was coming back. “Alright, fine, I’ll bite. How the hell do you know where she went, Mr. Witcher, can you smell the decay wafting off her saggy body?”

Geralt let out a long breath that Jaskier was certain he was meant to hear. 

“No,” Geralt said slowly, “because there’s a path leading into the middle of the woods, and I don’t think the local frog population keeps magical rocks on hand.” 

Jaskier blinked and looked down to the path. Sure enough, a runic symbol was carved on a small stone, seemingly placed there purposefully at the base of a tree. 

“Oh. So what does it do?” he asked, subtly edging away from it. 

Geralt huffed. “Don’t get your lute all out of tune, it’s fine. Whatever it was, it’s inert now. The only magic around us is…” 

Jaskier suddenly felt inordinately suspicious of his tone. Not only because Geralt didn’t generally trail off his sentences, but Jaskier could physically see the tension building in his shoulders as they walked, like a cat's hackles raising. “What?”

“Hm,” Geralt said, and if Jaskier didn’t know better he would say Geralt was being a bit awkward about it.

“ _Hm_ , what?” Jaskier asked, crossing his arms. “Go on, we’ve come this far. Might as well tell me how badly we’re fucked.”

Geralt levelled an unimpressed look towards him, which Jaskier matched in equal gravity. With a raised eyebrow for good measure. Eventually Geralt sighed. “It’s everywhere. The entire place is imbued with magic — the fog, the plants, the ground.”

“Well that explains the unnatural terror magic preventing me from running about like a headless cocatrice,” Jaskier hummed, which earned him another odd look. 

“You overcame it,” Geralt said, though it came out as nearly a question.

“Oh, the fearing for my life thing? That’s a ship _long_ since sailed.” Jaskier shrugged. 

Geralt studied him as though the answer merely baffled him more. He didn’t elaborate.

Shaking his head, Jaskier chose to ignore the look and chalked it up to Geralt being weird. He leaned down to study the rune closer. It wasn’t inert before, of that he was certain. Glowy things turning not-glowy usually meant it got broken in some way or form. Smacking it head on with a sword seemed to be one of those ways. 

Jaskier noted a faint green hue in the distance, obscured by the fog enough that he had to squint to be certain he wasn’t seeing things. “There’s another one.”

They moved towards it, Geralt taking the lead with Jaskier trailing behind. It didn’t take long to see that there was another in the distance beyond that. Geralt and Jaskier glanced at one another in sych, coming to an unspoken conclusion.

“Sketchy,” said Geralt.

“Mmhmm,” Jaskier agreed enthusiastically. He studied the fog in front of them, searching for signs of movement. He could see nothing, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t lurking about in wait.

The bushes beside Jaskier shook. 

He let out a shriek, hand clutching at his chest in the same moment that Geralt shoved him to the side, taking his place in the forefront with his sword held ready to strike. 

A squirrel stared back at them in terror.

Jaskier groaned, picking himself up off the ground muttering expletives. When he righted himself, he stomped his foot and threw his hands up dramatically. “I hate it! I hate this! No, _no_ , it is not allowed to give someone thalassophobia whilst standing on solid ground in the middle of a forest!” 

A hand clapped Jaskier’s back, making him jump again. He glared at Geralt, brushing off more dirt from his doublet. “Mature,” Jaskier deadpanned.

“You just stomped your foot like a four year old.” 

“I feel entitled to a small meltdown, thank you for your input.” 

Geralt continued on, walking towards the next glowing rune as if nothing ever happened. The petulant bard followed, grumbling under his breath. Then he slowed, frowning at the witcher, who supposedly had _witcher senses._

“Geralt,” Jaskier said carefully, catching up with him close enough to speak in a whisper. “You unsheathed your sword. For a squirrel.”

As per-fucking-usual, no response to be found.

“You were about to tell us how fucked we were because of the magic in the air. It’s inhibiting your abilities isn’t it? The runes? You don’t have a clue what’s around us or how close she might be,” Jaskier guessed.

At the annoyed side glance he received, Jaskier realized he was right. 

Jaskier counted to five in his head before speaking. “Okay, you could mention these things. Keep me informed? You know, things people waltzing into dangerous situations do for each other?”

It seemed that Geralt had reached the end of his fraying rope of patience, because he turned, pushing Jaskier up against the nearest tree. Jaskier glared back, meeting Geralt’s cat-like yellow eyes, unflinching.

“Will you ever stop talking?”

“Oh, it bothers you that I ask perfectly reasonable questions?” Jaskier asked. 

“It bothers me that you continue to mouth off in the middle of us _waltzing into a dangerous situation_ ,” Geralt answered, though his temper seemed to be levelling off enough to let Jaskier go abruptly, as though only just noticing how physical he’d gotten. 

He turned and stalked away, slowing down just enough for Jaskier to take the hint. 

Hint being that he expected Jaskier to follow without question. Again. 

Seeing as there was no way not to follow the man holding all the weapons, Jaskier acquiesced to his momentary defeat and fell into step behind him. He considered yapping Geralt’s ear off again, but thought better than weighing the danger of getting ambushed by a witch against his desire to be annoying. Barely. 

Another softly glowing rune, another rune smashed with a sword, sparking in the fog. They went about their way towards each next stone in relative silence. Geralt cracked four more after the first, and Jaskier was somehow unsurprised that the path led them directly to the mouth of a cave.

The cavern was tall — tiny rivulets of water trailed down the rock face around it, with long branches of thick green vines dangling over the entrance like a cascade of water, frozen in an unnatural stillness.

Jaskier saw Geralt grimace, staring into the darkness. It felt like a rock dropped in his stomach, and he decided to break the silence in favor of stopping his friend from _actually_ getting himself killed. 

“You ever see a physical thing in front of you and think _ooh, bad idea_?” Jaskier muttered, searching Geralt carefully for a response. 

Geralt straightened his back. Unsheathed his sword.

“A resounding _no_ , apparently.” Jaskier huffed.

It took Geralt a moment of glancing between the cave and the bard to come to a decision. “Stay here.”

Except, instead of a callous dismissal, Jaskier was startled by a hand firmly gripping his shoulder, turning him to look him in the eye. 

Bright. Emotional. Sincere. Geralt was worried, and he might as well have shouted it from the mountaintops. It was moments like this where Jaskier was cemented in his reasons for why he followed Geralt around. Geralt was his best friend, simple as that. Somewhere, somewhen along the line, Geralt realized that too. 

Jaskier hummed in what was almost an agreeing sound. “And let you go alone?”

“I’m serious, Jaskier.”

“As am I.” Jaskier returned his gaze to the one that trapped him in place — that was all it took to solidify any second thoughts he might have had. Geralt's hand on his shoulder acted as an anchor to which he was tethered. It almost came unbidden, then, that Jaskier continued with all the honesty he possessed. 

“Bards follow their muses, dear witcher,” Jaskier said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “But you already knew that."

Geralt stared, almost stunned, studying Jaskier with cautious uncertainty. The hand on his shoulder fell back to Geralt’s side. He seemed incapable of finding words for a moment, which honestly wasn’t a terrible look on him — Geralt of Rivia, actually thrown off his untouchable groove. Anything other than the scary-face mask was progress. 

There was a moment where Jaskier thought for certain that Geralt would simply agree and make his life a hell of a lot easier, but alas, Geralt was destined to cause unnecessary conflict. 

Geralt closed his eyes just long enough for Jaskier to know he was steeling himself. His voice came out hard, cold. “You’ll only get in my way.”

“Did I not just help you ten minutes ago? ‘Cause, I mean, my memory isn’t all that great but I could've sworn I did.” Jaskier raised a single brow, a challenge in his expression. 

There was a half-second pause, as though Geralt was debating an answer. Then he shook his head. “I don’t need you, so knock it off bard.”

Whatever moment they’d shared was broken. Geralt was lying through his teeth, acting like a child, and Jaskier was done with that line of attack.

“Fine,” Jaskier muttered. He kicked the remnants of a rune and plopped himself on the ground, criss-crossing his legs. “Shows what I know.”

Catching motion out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier realized that Geralt had aborted a motion with his hand, forcing it back down to his side. He waited to see if Geralt would change his mind. Jaskier wasn’t surprised when he turned around and walked into the cave without another sign of hesitation. 

Jaskier counted to thirty before he got up and followed.

The cave itself was surprisingly peaceful for housing a zombie witch. It took Jaskier a moment to realize that the spell pushing the fight or flight response was weakened within its walls. And if he thought the outside had been silent, this was unbearably loud. 

As he rounded the first corner of the path leading down to the rocky depths, Jaskier jumped when he nearly bumped straight into Geralt, who was leaning against the rock wall, arms crossed.

“Ah, oh, hello,” Jaskier said, and grinned guiltily at the witcher. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His expression seemed torn between amused and resigned — there was no mistaking the hint of fondness there in the way he sized Jaskier up. “Better I know where you are than wondering what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I have two skills to my name — singing and troublemaking.”

Geralt sighed heavily, beginning to walk down the path again. “Just stay the fuck behind me. Run if I tell you to run.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Jaskier answered cheerily, stepping over a rock jutting upwards. He grumbled under his breath when it caught on the sharp end anyway, tearing a small hole in his pants. It was with a soft huff that Jaskier caught Geralt looking at him with suspicion before he moved on, bard in tow. 

Droplets of water clung to the end of hundreds of stalactites hanging from the ceiling like fangs, and every few steps, they could hear the echo of a drip hitting the pool of water below it. Combined with the sounds of their own feet and breaths, their approach seemed deafening.

Geralt must have thought so too, because he held his hand near his hip at the ready where Jaskier recognized his potion for necromantic beasts hanging from his belt in a bottle. Behind them, the sunlight faded as they walked farther. They stopped only once to light a torch, holding it high as Geralt led the way. 

There came a point where the cavern was enveloped in pitch black save for the torch lit in Geralt’s hand. Except, it wasn’t entirely dark, Jaskier realized as his eyes adjusted. It took a moment to grow accustomed to the low light, but Jaskier was sure that Geralt had seen the soft blue glow emanating from ahead much farther back.

Slowing his pace, Geralt hunched down, creeping up along the wall. 

Jaskier remained behind, clutching the single dagger at his side, waiting for a witch to spontaneously appear. 

And spontaneously appear she did. 

An unearthly screech could have broken glass, and Jaskier had the hysterical thought that this was perhaps why the windows of the town were shattered. Darting to the side, Jaskier was going to make good on his intention to not get in the way, ducking behind an outcropping of jagged rocks to watch from a safe(ish) distance. 

The room was large, and the space was open — Jaskier squinted, wishing he had witcher powers right about now, because there were bright flashes of greens and purples, and Geralt was holding his own with ease. Magic battles were nothing new in Jaskier’s life, but it was always an awe-inspiring thing to witness how they parried as if it was a sword fight, where the same principles were used to match wits and assess the others. If Jaskier weren’t currently scared shitless, he thought he’d write that down for some lyric somewhere down the line. 

If asked, Jaskier couldn’t have recalled exactly what happened next. There were some bright lights, some yelling, and some loud crashing sounds that echoed demonically through the cavern. He actually saw very little, with flashes occasionally revealing the area like lightning in the middle of the night. The witch looked a hell of a lot worse. Her face was pulling with the decaying skin now with the white of bone showing beneath. 

Then came Geralt’s pained grunt, one last burst of green light, and a thunderous, earth shaking crack. 

When the resounding echo faded away, Jaskier waited, peering over the rocks for Geralt. He didn’t risk calling out just yet, despite his heart lurching into his chest. Hands placed on the jagged stone beneath him, he pushed up to get a better vantage point. Relief swelled through him when he saw Geralt standing over the witch laying across the ground in a bloody heap. 

“Oh, good, she’s—”

Before he could finish his sentence, her body lurched up in an arch, a blood-curdling scream ripping through her. The sound felt almost physical, slamming down like hands against Jaskier’s ears, and he fell back behind the rocks. He wasn’t certain when the screaming stopped because it rang in his ears and his world shook, eyes unfocused, his senses cross-wired. It took far too long to realize the cavern itself was shaking, and only figured that out because Geralt was grabbing his arms, pulling him up and around just as a series of stalactites broke from the ceiling and crashed down where he’d been hiding. 

Geralt dragged Jaskier, and though Jaskier watched the witcher’s mouth form words, he couldn’t make them out. Even through the fog of his addled, disoriented mind and the terror rushing like cold rain through his body, Jaskier could see the man’s frantic eyes and pinched brows. 

It hit Jaskier like a brick. Geralt was _afraid._

Adrenaline raced through him as Jaskier grappled for Geralt’s sleeve. They scrambled back from the loose rocks falling from the ceiling, cracking against the floor as they landed. Back, back, towards the glowing pool of what was likely dangerous magic material — Geralt pushed Jaskier against the slippery wall, crowding him painfully against it.

Jaskier braced. He noted with detached observation that the moment he’d finally gotten Geralt to shove him against a wall was going to be his last. Personally, he thought that was unnecessarily cruel and painfully ironic to boot. He was hyper aware of Geralt’s hand behind his head, pressing Jaskier’s face into his shoulder, the claustrophobic scent of mustiness intermingling with the distinctive cleaning oil on Geralt’s leather armor, and the familiar smell of sweat and teakwood.

Geralt tightened his hold around him. It felt different. Not protection, not defensive. 

Ah. 

Seeing as they wouldn’t be having last words, well… a hug was okay. 

Closing his eyes, Jaskier squeezed back.

And then everything stilled. 

Geralt moved first, cautiously lifting his head to scan the room. Jaskier swallowed, following suit to look at their new surroundings. Stepping back a step, Geralt’s hands held both of Jaskier’s arms at his side, concern leaking into his yellow, catlike eyes. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt took a deep breath, looking him over. “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier didn’t trust his voice. He thought he might break down into tears if he tried. He nodded in a jerky motion. 

Geralt frowned, but loosened his vise grip on Jaskier’s arms slowly to make sure he could stand on his own. Somehow, Jaskier managed it. Except when he looked around them, he wasn’t so sure he could anymore. The cave-in didn’t so much block their path out as destroyed any trace of its existence. No amount of witcher strength or shoveling could unbury them. It left them standing in a small alcove beside the glowing pool, which seemed to have survived just fine. 

A frozen hand lay out from beneath one newly created rock wall, and Jaskier was morbidly pleased that at least she couldn’t bother them again.

“Well, the witch problem is solved,” Jaskier muttered under his shaky breath. He looked away, closing his eyes to calm himself. 

A disturbing silence followed where a sarcastic comment would normally be interjected, and they could play the game of witty repartee to distract themselves. 

When Jaskier looked up, it was to see Geralt staring at the wall of stone still settling from the cave-in. “We’re fucked.”

Jaskier grimaced and followed his gaze, repeating with a tremulous finality. “ _So_ fucked.”


	2. Out of the Rabbit Hole, Into the Portal

It was a few hours into their darkened isolation. 

Some small stroke of luck was the fact that they’d managed to get themselves trapped on the outcropping of the magical pool that emanated enough light to see one another well enough, though it casted everything in an unearthly blue glow. It made Geralt’s white hair look even whiter, his strong jaw framed by stark shadows dancing across his face in patterns reflecting the water’s soft motions. 

Despite the cave-in being near deafening in the moment, Jaskier was becoming more uncomfortable with the distinct loss of environmental noise. Where the air was thick and claustrophobic, the ringing in his ears resulting from absolute silencewas beginning to grate on his nerves more than moist clothing sticking to his skin. He thought he knew what silence meant in the quiet of settling down for camp after the fire had broiled down to warm embers, or the nights within the guest rooms of royal courts where the walls were built thick to prevent listening ears on private conversation. 

No, this was _advanced_ silence. 

And then there was the more pressing issue. Once the terror of mortal danger ran through their adrenaline stores, a different kind of fear began to take root. The knowledge that one of a few choice deaths was undoubtedly going to be their own fate lent a new sort of perspective — the proverbial reaper was not waiting in the wings with sickle in hand so much as deciding how to prepare his meal after catching rabbits in a snare. 

There went all Jaskier’s hopes of dying of old age, or gallantly in a fight at a damsel’s defense, or martyred at the hands of an assassin sent via artistic rival. None of them were particularly pleasant deaths, but while dying was decidedly not on his list of things to do, he’d at leasthoped that it wouldn’t be as pathetic as what would be currently written on his tombstone, which was a wonderfully succinct: _Jaskier Pankratz, brilliant bard. Cause of death: stuck in hole._

But then came the particulars of said death-via-hole. 

Dying of hunger. Thirst. Suffocation. One of them keeling over and leaving the other in silent isolation until death finally took pity on the other. 

Jaskier thought Geralt might have considered this last scenario, because his glances kept getting more unsettled, looking at Jaskier when he thought the bard couldn’t tell. A witcher would outlast a human in this case, whatever may finally do him in, no contest. 

For the first half hour of their entrapment, Geralt took up a fascinatingly pointless pastime of casting Aard against the fallen stone. That failing, he’d resorted to manually lifting rocks out of the way, only for more to tumble down the dirt pile. When Geralt threw his sword against the pile of rocks was around when Jaskier gave up hope for a self-made escape. 

As it were, they were going to pretend it was _possible_ to escape — or better, that they were waiting for a miraculous rescue — while they passed the time. Or, that was the unspoken plan until it was no longer possible to feign their survival odds. 

So when Geralt threw out random questions, unrelated comments, and was generally being more chatty than Jaskier ever knew him to be, Jaskier was more than willing to be the one to oblige for once. It was weird. Unnerving. It brought home the fact that they were uncompromisingly in the worst situation they’d found themselves in thus far. 

“The magic didn’t hold you in place,” Geralt said suddenly. He was sitting, resting his back against the cave wall in a manner that surely must have dampened the back of his shirt. Jaskier hadn’t quite gotten to the point of needing to sit, though his legs were beginning to protest his agitated pacing.

In the middle of stomping enthusiastically upon a crawly cavern roach, Jaskier looked up. “Excuse me?”

In the dim light, Jaskier could see Geralt working his jaw, hesitating, wondering whether he truly wanted to ask the question so clearly on his mind. Jaskier sighed. 

“Don’t be shy, you’ve already started and now I’m intrigued and won’t leave you alone until you talk, so let’s expedite the process, shall we?” Jaskier said, gesturing in a _go ahead_ motion. He pushed down the urge to give into his mental jitters and start pacing. Talking was a good distraction. 

“The witch’s magic in the forest. It was meant to paralyze you with your own fear. How were you able to move?” Geralt asked, an arm slung over a bent knee. It seemed as if the man was taking the moment to rest up, which Jaskier couldn’t exactly fault him for. 

Jaskier tilted his head to the side, frowning in thought. “That’s what you were going to ask before, wasn’t it? Is it so important?”

“Even I had a difficult time moving under her influence,” he answered in way of explanation, as if it actually explained anything. Geralt’s brows pinched together, lips thinning as if that could stop the line of questioning that he himself started. He looked curious. Troubled. 

“I was thinking that I needed to help you,” Jaskier answered, shrugging. He gave an exaggerated huff. “But clearly someone had it entirely under control.”

“I did have it under control, but that’s beside the point,” Geralt said, and if Jaskier weren’t so baffled, he might have spluttered with indignant offense.

“What, exactly, _is_ your point?” Jaskier asked. Leave it to Geralt to finally want to talk and still somehow be as infuriating as witches and their riddles.

For whatever reason, the point blank question appeared to throw Geralt off. He shook his head, as though to rid himself of whatever conflicting thoughts he might have been having. Except, that left Jaskier even more confused.

“You asked. Do I really have to interrogate you for what should be a normal conversation?” Jaskier asked, throwing his hands into the air. “Incredible.”

Sighing, Geralt finally relented. “I didn’t think it was possible for a human to overcome a spell like that.”

Jaskier paused, brows furrowing together. “Should I be insulted?”

“If you’d like to be.” Geralt rolled his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone. “For a human, you sometimes surprise me.”

“...Thanks?” Jaskier frowned. He gestured with his hand as he spoke. “Again, travelling with you tends to raise the mortal fear baseline. Another drowner? Been there, done that. Vengeful witch? Unnerving and terrifying, but there can only be so many of them before I run out of material for tantalizing diddies. Besides, humans can actually fight off some of those spells with enough motivation.”

“Right,” Geralt said after a slightly too-long pause of contemplation. 

Something in his voice made Jaskier stop, looking in his direction with suspicion. 

Jaskier squinted at him in the dim light. Hard. “Oh. Wait. Wait, yes. I do believe I should be insulted right now. You know witcher abilities aren’t the be-all-end-all to magical problems, right?”

Geralt, to his credit, blinked. Slowly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said with a note of intense irritation. “I would love it if you even once listened to any one of my songs.”

At Geralt’s blank stare, Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose and waved his hand in frustration. “You know, willpower and dedication? Love? Fairly good motivator, if you’ve never noticed. Humans aren’t useless. Don’t discount them.”

A tense moment of silence passed between them, until Geralt let out a long breath — and promptly said the worst possible thing he could have said at that very moment. “I’d like to see you take on a griffin without getting your head bitten off.”

And just like that, the tenuously casual atmosphere vanished like a noonwraith at dusk. 

“I seem to have handled the witch-bitch just fine,” Jaskier said, his eyes flashing. “Not to mention putting up with _you_ on a daily basis.”

“Last I checked, you follow _me_ around,” Geralt said. His tone was flat, as if Jaskier was somehow at fault for coming to save his sorry ass. “And if you stayed with Roach, there might have been someone on the outside to get some fucking shovels.”

Jaskier grit his teeth. Oh, he did _not just._

“You _utter prick._ Not naming names here, but I’m going to point at _not me_ when I remind said unnamed person which of us wanted to go in the dark, unpleasantly moist cavern wherein glowing pools of water didn’t trigger any helpful Witcher instincts to turn around.” 

Geralt growled, chucking a stone across the empty cavern where it hit the other side of the rock wall with a loud thunk. 

Sticking a tongue into the side of one cheek, Jaskier put one hand on his hip and glowered down at the witcher with an exaggerated flourish of his other hand. “Oh, please, go on. If you care to insult humans any farther, I’d appreciate it if I weren’t trying to argue with an over-muscled child to boot.”

Geralt closed his eyes. “Why do you never shut up?”

Jaskier immediately decided he was more than happy to insist on not shutting up. More than one of them could be immature at one time. 

He strummed an imaginary lute. “When a humble bard graced to ride along with Geralt of Assholery!”

The rock Geralt threw hit true this time, smacking Jaskier in the thigh. He yelped. Glaring but undeterred, he sang louder. “Oh, valley of _cockfuck_!”

“ _Bard,”_ Geralt snapped.

“ _Witcher,”_ answered Jaskier, venom trailing into his voice now. 

Silence hung between them like a guillotine’s blade. Jaskier clenched his fists into tight balls, nails digging into the bed of his palm. 

Well, fine. There was more than one way to be childish. Jaskier would happily take part.

He sat on the dirty, musty cavern floor, pulling his knees to his chest. When they got tingly from lack of blood flow, he shifted so his legs criss-crossed over one another. Leaning back against the frigid wall, Jaskier let out a slow, soundless breath. 

Fine. 

It was perfectly fine that Geralt apparently saw him as a useless human, incapable of doing anything helpful. Nevermind that he’d proven himself time and time again, nevermind that he had — within the past few hours — assisted in taking down one of those magical creatures that were oh-so impossible for a weak human such as himself. And sure, they might be trapped in a cave now, but he was still holding to the surety that Geralt would be dead without his help. Or, at the very least, much more injured than he was right now. 

The cave fell silent for a few long moments. It hadn’t escaped him that Geralt had, at some point, decided that remaining idle was their best course of action. The drips from the stalactites above them felt a hell of a lot like crickets chirping. While Jaskier suspected that Geralt was injured and waiting for his witcher healing powers to kick in, it didn’t stop Jaskier from grumbling and standing up, walking to study the glowing pool of water.

Glancing back at Geralt, who had his eyes closed and was obviously ignoring him, Jaskier breathed a long breath out and went back to his search. If he could figure a way out through the water, then…

“Don’t.” Geralt hadn’t bothered opening his eyes.

“Why not? Does glowy mean dangerous?” Jaskier asked, hesitant, but curious to find whether his theory was correct. Wouldn’t be the first time they’d escaped a cave through underwater tunnels — that being the case, they really needed to reexamine their life choices. Plus, he wouldn’t mind terribly if he was the one to get them out of this mess Geralt was so intent on blaming on Jaskier.

“If there was a way out through there, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation right now,” Geralt said, tossing a pebble across the ground in front of him. His head was still resting back against the cavern wall, seemingly trying to nap.

“Just answer the question,” Jaskier argued. “You’re not all knowing. There might be a tunnel or something down there.” 

Finally, Geralt let out a long breath of air. “No. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s harmless. Simple, unformed energy.”

At Jaskier’s pensive silence, Geralt cracked an eye open moodily and clarified. “Doesn’t affect humans. Go for a swim for all I care.”

“So why’d you avoid touching it?”

“I didn’t know it was harmless until _after_ the spell barring my senses wore off. You know, when she died. After said information might have been useful to fight her.”

“Oh… alright then,” said Jaskier, glancing between Geralt and the water. 

“Jaskier, I looked. There’s no way out.”

“Didn’t see you diving down there.” 

Geralt shrugged. “Witcher.”

Jaskier threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “That isn’t the answer to everything!” 

Geralt’s glare almost made him back down. It only encouraged Jaskier to be difficult.

It was with absolute, overwhelmingly petty glee that Jaskier raised both of his brows, kicked off his shoes, and stepped carelessly backwards from the edge. 

The sound of the splash was louder than he’d thought it would be, but a welcome respite to the silence. The water was cool, wiping away the disgusting feel of fabric clinging to his skin, though he imagined he’d be feeling the repercussions of this venture when he got back out.

Fully submerged, Jaskier opened his eyes and looked down. Up close, he could see that the glow was actually emanating from miniscule orbs, floating around him like motes of dust in the air. Hopeful that the light would guide his way through the water and lead somewhere useful, Jaskier dove further. 

His first and only warning that something might be wrong was the soft blue lights, shivering.When he tried to swim back to the surface, his body wouldn’t move, and instead hung suspended in the water like a marionette. He could feel panic beginning to rush through him, wondering if he was about to die because he’d been petty and wanted to prove Geralt how useful humans were.

There was a flash of light. Jaskier could only think _oh shit_ before he was jerked downwards. Then he fell, as if there was a pocket of air beneath the lake. 

And he didn’t stop falling. 

It was a small blessing, in Jaskier’s opinion, that he passed out before hitting whatever might have been at the bottom. 

~~~

There were half a dozen reasons why Geralt hadn’t told Jaskier about the letter. Only one of those reasons made a lot of sense, but he wasn’t about to own up to that. 

Geralt stared where Jaskier near gleefully walked off the edge. He might have been confident that the magic was harmless, but did the bard have to take his word so literally? Leaping into vats of glowing water in a witch’s cavern was not par-for-the-course, and he hoped Jaskier knew that. At least for as long as Jaskier stayed below the water, even for a few bloody seconds, there was some small amount of peace. 

He sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the cavern wall, focusing instead on the small moment of respite. Just a few goddamn minutes of peace, some meditation, and he’d be good to go. Might even find a clever way out of here. 

It took him ten seconds to get distracted by Jaskier, who appeared — or more accurately, did _not_ reappear — to be having a fun time underwater. 

Geralt sighed. Jaskier was playing the very mature game of pretending he wasn’t coming back up for air, which was grounds for further silence from Geralt who was justifying his humble opinion that he put up with a lot and he wasn’t about to let Jaskier prod yet another reaction from him. 

He _wasn’t_. 

But what Jaskier was not able to do was use magic. To any extent. 

Which made the sudden burst of energy from below the waterline that much more concerning. 

Geralt leapt to his feet, rushing to the edge. He searched the water, still bright but fading back to a soft blue. Staring into an empty pool of water, Geralt’s breath caught in his throat, a pit dropping into his stomach. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt scanned the water — felt his chest tighten at the nothing, how damning the softly rippling surface, lacking even air bubbles.

While he hadn’t expected an answer, the silence solidified the manifestation of his fears. 

He dove in without hesitation, swimming downwards in the hopes that this was still a prank, that Jaskier found a tunnel to the side, that the magic he’d felt was something residual from the witch. Not that Jaskier was gone. It didn’t matter where he went, only that he was not _here,_ not with Geralt in relative safety, vanished into water Geralt himself told him was safe. 

The magic stirred as he neared the bottom. Blue light gathered and burst outwards in a blinding flash, and then he was plunged headlong into darkness.


	3. Jaskier Smells Things

_I’m going to skin his finely sculpted ass,_ was Jaskier’s first thought as he crawled back from the foggy realm of unconsciousness. Well, at least he had his priorities in order — a good chewing-out for Geralt first, figuring out what the _hell_ just happened later. 

The ground was hard beneath him, and cold, like a marble floor sucking the chill from the air. The tile seemed to penetrate through his clothes, leaving him shivering..

He remembered very little, and what he did was a blurred memory of yelling and darkness. Not dead yet, so that was a plus. Most likely he’d passed out, Geralt saved them both from whatever enemy they’d just been fighting, and the witcher had since dropped Jaskier to the ground inside a nice inn. Something that was possible, maybe, but he had a sinking feeling that Geralt didn’t indulge his petty tendencies this time. 

Then, slowly everything came back to him. The cave, the witch, the pool of completely and _totally harmless magic_. Wouldn’t possibly affect humans, according to Geralt. Sitting up, Jaskier rubbed his face and thought he should have dragged Geralt down with him. As far as he knew, Geralt was still in some godforsaken cave while he was nicely transported out and away from it all. Jaskier hated portals as a rule, but just this once, he could make an exception. 

Jaskier tried to shake off the horrific headache pounding in his ears. He thought he might have smacked his head somewhere along the line, which would be an added complication if he got himself concussed. All his senses were too sensitive, like they’d been jacked up to level ten. Slowly, he made sense of it, picking out individual scents. He smelled the soft hint of lavender. Beneath that, there was the scent of sizzling food, and the sharp sweat of the cooks making it. 

Jaskier crinkled his nose. _No, no, that’s weird. You don’t smell people, that’s solely Geralt’s department._

It made him uneasy. With an uncomfortable realization, Jaskier was hyper-aware of the way his heart thumped in his chest, the steady beat of his pulse. His nose was assaulted with lavender-salt-spice and a half dozen things he couldn’t identify. When he peeked an eye open, Jaskier took a quick stock of his surroundings. 

Jaskier was alone, lying on the floor of the finest room he’d ever seen. What he saw jolted him, sucking in a breath as he sat up in a sharp, startled motion. It clearly was a room within a veritable palace — a bedroom, bright and thematically themed. Red and yellow seemed to be the color scheme of the hour, and despite his certainty that his headache was about to grow tenfold, also spared a thought to the lovely interior decorating. 

“Okay,” he said, blinking at the way he’d been sprawled out, like he’d passed out where he’d stood. If where he’d been standing was in an obnoxiously decorated bedroom rather than a musty witch cave. 

Millitele, he felt weird, and his sense of caution seemed to have flown off to the same place reality seemed to be now. That is, very far away from him. 

“Geraaaalt?” he called softly, hesitant. Jaskier didn’t expect an answer, but the silence was disconcerting. 

A curl of fear worked its way through his stomach, twisting at the sensation of _wrong._

Blinking tiredly in the empty room, Jaskier frowned. Geralt clearly didn’t follow him, seeing as he wasn’t here. Or, perhaps, spit out of the portal somewhere else — though, he wasn’t sure that was a function of portals to begin with. Didn’t seem to be the case whenever Yennefer decided to make a quick getaway, though. They always led somewhere specific. 

...Then again, what did Jaskier know about portals? Any and all thoughts beyond this were dedicated to avoiding the very real fear that Geralt didn’t follow at all, since he seemed to have some epiphany that humans were bloody useless to keep around anyway. 

No, not even thinking about it. 

He studied his surroundings, brushing his doublet of dirt that didn’t exist in the perfectly cleaned room, and froze when his fingers brushed a leather strap. Snapping his eyes downward, Jaskier gaped at the attire of a fully armed warrior — a dagger was holstered at his hip, a sword sheathed on his back. He was afraid to look in the small bag dumped on the floor now, but the way the experimental knock of his boot against the leather resulted in the sound of small vials clinking together, he could guess that it was filled with potions. 

“Excuse me, I’m a pacifist, _”_ he called aloud, despite it being to an empty room, and also a complete lie.

Jaskier let out a long breath, shifting his hips and frowning when there was far too much jingly noise to be called normal or stealthy. This sort of getup was what a witch (or, frankly, a witcher) might wear, seeing as they were too terrifyingly powerful to actually need the advantage of stealth. 

“Right, okay, so, this is entirely fine and must have a completely normal explanation,” he muttered, moving for the closed door. He half expected it to be locked, but the large, intricately carved door was easily pulled open — and he stared, almost uncomprehendingly at it. 

If they meant to incarcerate or keep him prisoner, they were doing a shoddy job of it. He wasn’t even certain that was what they (whoever _they_ might be) were trying to do, because right now, Jaskier was almost tempted to believe it was a very elaborate plot devised by his colleagues at Oxenfurt to bully him for denying their request to teach a winter class. He was busy, dammit, with all his loitering and trailing behind Geralt, his schedule was simply booked. 

He darted into the hallway as he normally would given a weird, mysterious circumstance, and was rewarded with immediately forgetting and being reminded that he made quite a bit of noise when he moved. Grumbling, he slowed and suppressed the urge to duck into the nearest entryway. Surely, if they _gave_ him weapons and didn’t bother to lock the door, he wasn’t… kidnapped? Unless it was some strange reverse psychology thing, in which case, Jaskier was still convinced they were doing a terrible job of it. 

Except, the last he remembered, he was trapped in a cavern with no way out. 

Where the bleeding hell _was_ Geralt anyway? Still in the cave, relishing in his newfound silence?

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Running circles of thoughts around his own head was doing nothing for his panicked, somewhat confused status. A scent wafted down the hall, and Jaskier blinked at the sudden intrusion. The extra senses thing threw him for a loop. He couldn’t think of a single thing that could give him the ability to do anything like that, or why he’d even want to. 

_Alright_ , he thought. _First things first. Find someone who won’t kill you on the spot._

The idea of food made his stomach churn, but where there was food, there was likely people. The smell almost pushed against his senses as he neared a door his nose was strongly insinuating to be the kitchens. A great effort was made not to pinch his nose shut at the offending scent, and pushed open the door cautiously. 

A woman stood over a pot, stirring the contents. Beside her, an open stove where she was indeed cooking up pancakes. The smell of syrup was sickly sweet and overpowering. Jaskier winced at the assault on his poor nostrils. 

He pushed open the door slowly. “Ah. Erm, greetings!” Jaskier tried, offering a stiff wave. “I was wondering, if you’d be so kind, to inform a very confused individual where this place may be?” 

She turned around. Her face was pudgy and smudged with flour, blonde hair pulled up into a bun beneath a piece of fabric tied at the back of her neck. And, most importantly, she held a wooden spoon in one hand, her other hand on her hip, and was poised far too threateningly.

“ _You,”_ she hissed, brandishing her spoon at him. 

“Uh,” said Jaskier. So much for finding someone who didn’t want to kill him. 

“You come in here, slacking off your duties yet again, and expect me to _feed you?_ You ungrateful, griffin-pissing brat!” She took a step forward, and Jaskier yelped, back smacking the door frame. 

“What are you talking about?” Jaskier asked, near desperate now because he was officially lost in this conversation and frankly, was more prepared for a literal griffin, a witch, or maybe a couple drowners roaming about the kitchens than this. He was not expecting a threat coming from a terrifying cook. The situation was confusing enough, and frankly, Jaskier thought this fit into the mental circus he apparently awoke into. 

“Ma’am I believe you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he tried, raising his hands up in an attempt at peace. This gesture seemed to make it worse. 

“Oh don’t you dare use none of your spells on me, I’ll skin ye alive,” the cook growled. Jaskier thought she gave Geralt himself a run for his money. 

“Okay, okay! Not doing anything threatening, I just want to know where my friend is,” Jaskier said, lowering his hands. 

“Mine is right here,” she said, smacking her threatening spoon into the palm of her other hand. 

Jaskier stared at the spoon. Then back at her. No, okay, he was done with this. 

“Look. Lady. I woke up covered in weapons and weird bottles with uncomfortably colored liquids and I don’t even know what they do. And _leather_! I’m wearing leather, and I’ll have you know I like my breathable doublets with a fashionable sense of style, and that’s somehow more upsetting than the fact that someone clearly undressed me and put this cockshit on my person. And I suddenly possess a very, ungodly strong sense of smell — though I’m not unconvinced it’s your cooking — and I just want to know where the _hell I am_ ,” Jaskier was yelling by the end of his small, well-deserved tantrum (in his opinion), and finalized it by throwing his hands up in frustration. 

The cook paused in her forward march, raising a brow. “Have you been experimenting with your potions again?”

“Have I what?” Jaskier frowned. 

“Heavens sakes, if you keep this up you won’t be able to do your job. You know, the one the prince actually pays you for?” She huffed, rolling her eyes and turning back to her pot. She hissed, cursing loudly that her pancakes were burning. This was an exaggeration — Jaskier was fairly sure he’d be able to smell it if any food was actually burning. 

“...prince,” Jaskier repeated, slowly. “I was brought here by a prince. For what ungodly purpose would royalty want from me, to sing him to sleep?”

The cook snorted loudly. “Good question. I swear that’s all you do around here, glad to see you’re finally catching up. If that potion’s gone to your head, maybe you’ll retain some intelligence this time,” she added. 

“Hey, I resent that,” Jaskier said indignantly, crossing his arms. “What have I ever done to you?”

This, again, seemed to be the wrong thing to say. 

“Oh, what have you done?” she asked in return, slow and sweet. Jaskier gulped.

Her dark eyes, he swore, held literal fire in their depths. “You’ve stolen my baking powder, thrown dragon peppers into my soup, used my chickens as guinea pigs for your spells, burned not one, but two freshly baked pies, stuffed a stolen loaf of bread down your pants, and released _spiders into my pantry_!”

“What,” Jaskier said. 

“Take this food to the prince or I will personally cook _you_ on a spit next,” she said, shoving a plate into his hands. The cook looked him up and down, her eyes burning with ire, before huffing furiously and shoving more food onto a second plate. With that, she shooed him backwards and through the door. “That’ll be the last thing you eat if you’re not careful, Julian.”

Jaskier gaped, eyes widening. “Excu—”

The door slammed into his face. He stared uncomprehendingly into the carved wood. 

“Julian?” he mouthed, and turned, facing an empty hallway with two full plates of breakfast.


End file.
